Wonder
by moonlighten
Summary: Circa 1711: Scotland makes his first visit to America's home. One-shot, complete. Part 9 of the Feel the Fear series.


**Circa 1711; Province of Virginia**

-  
>From the way England talked of him, Scotland had been expecting America to be little more than a bairn, but it's a half-grown lad who comes barrelling out of the house to meet their arrival.<p>

He launches himself at England from several feet away, and then lands against him so heavily that England staggers back a few steps, his hands grasping at America's shoulders to maintain his balance and keep them both from toppling over into the dirt.

America, in turn, wraps his arms around England's middle, which seems to delight and embarrass England in equal measures, judging by his muddled expression: a wrinkled brow and flushed cheeks sitting ill at ease atop his indulgent smile.

"You look well, lad," he says, patting America awkwardly on his back. "Very well, indeed."

He allows the embrace to continue for no more than a couple of heartbeats, and then eases himself away from the young colony. His hands hover, uncertain, in mid-air for a moment, and then he begins fussily smoothing imaginary wrinkles out of the heavy brocade of his justacorps' bodice.

"Here's Wales to see you, too," England says, nodding towards Wales without looking at either him or America.

America sketches a stiff little bow, which Wales promptly returns in kind. If the disparity between his greeting and England's troubles him at all, he disguises it well. Where once Scotland would have expected to see hurt, or else a faint trace of annoyance, there is nothing but complaisance.

He has begun to fear that the long years of living alone with England might have irreparably damaged something within Wales, who used to wear his heart so bold on his sleeve when they were children together.

"And I won't say it's a pleasure to introduce you," England finishes, smiling a little slyly, "but this is my other brother, Scotland."

The slow, shocked widening of the lad's eyes tells Scotland a great deal regarding what has been said about him in his absence, none of it good.

Still, America bows quite readily, nevertheless, and then, to England's apparent consternation, politely extends his hand. Scotland's shakes it carefully, as his own hand is near double the size, but the lad's grip proves itself to be surprisingly strong.

England sniffs loudly and disapprovingly, makes a swift turn on his heel, and then beckons imperiously over his shoulder for Wales and Scotland to follow him. Obedient as a well-trained dog, Wales trots along after him as he heads indoors.

Scotland stays exactly where he is on principle.

America also hangs back, his bright blue eyes still full as he stares at Scotland with an openness Scotland supposes he should find insolent and vulgar. There is such a forthright curiosity in the lad's gaze, however, that he can't he help but find it refreshingly honest.

He is more circumspect in satisfying his own curiosity, and studies America only out of the corner of one eye whilst pretending great interest in surveying the architecture of the lad's small house.

America is not just taller than he had been led to expect, but scrawnier too, though the coltish awkwardness of his movements and the bony wrists that lay exposed beneath the cuffs of his plain shirt suggest that he might well have grown both rapidly and recently.

That there's very little fear in him seems true, at least, as he dogs Scotland's every step but one pace away, even though, knowing England – which Scotland does; and far better than his brother would ever care to admit – he has probably been informed that Scotland's moods are incomprehensibly mercurial and he would be safer to keep his distance at all times.

Some time later, when Scotland has bent to feign appreciation of the house's doorstep, America finally breaks his silence and says, "England's told me all about you."

Scotland straightens slowly, and cocks a questioning eyebrow at the lad. "Aye?" he asks. "And what, exactly, did he say?"

America takes a deep breath and opens his mouth, but then closes it in silence again just as quickly. His cheeks redden with a blush, though Scotland thinks he looks more annoyed than ashamed by his inability to speak.

"A lot of words that he'd threaten to tan your hide for repeating, would be my guess," Scotland says, taking pity on the lad. "But aside from the vulgarities, he doubtless told you that I'm a lout, and a boor, and a pig-headed idiot."

"And are you?" America asks, as blunt and forthright as his earlier staring.

Scotland is impressed once more by the lad's candour. "Now, they're hardly qualities a man would want to claim for himself, are they? I'd much sooner say that I don't suffer fools gladly; England included amongst their number, when he deserves it." He looks at America levelly. "I think the more important matter is what you think."

"You're very tall," America says, after a moment's contemplation. "And you look strong."

Scotland can't fault the lad's eye, and he's glad that he didn't thence conclude that Scotland was therefore some kind of ogre, which was like to be the picture England has endeavoured to paint of him. "I don't just look it," he says.

"Could you lift me?" America asks.

"With one finger, I should think," Scotland says, after careful and exaggerated consideration of the lad's frame.

America smiles, and then points towards the large pile of travelling chests and crates stacked beside his house's front door. "Could you carry them?"

Scotland presumes he will be doing so in short order, in any case. England had sent away both their servants and America's once their carriages were unloaded. By Wales' accounts, he enjoys playing his role of caretaker to the hilt when staying with America: not only seeing to the lad's lessons, but the running of his household, too.

"One under each arm," he tells America. "And I wouldn't even raise a sweat."

"Could you pick up a buffalo?"

Scotland laughs at the sudden veer of America's questions into the ridiculous. "Naw, lad. I think they're a bit too big for me to manage that."

"I can," America says, his scrawny chest puffing up with imagined pride.

"A wee thing like you?" Scotland shakes his head. "I don't believe it."

"I can!" America says, and with such vehemence that it's clear that he firmly believes himself to be speaking the truth, if nothing else.

"That's something I'd like to see," Scotland says, amused enough by the lad's childish delusions to humour him for the time being. "You'll have to make sure to show me some day."  
>-<p>

* * *

><p>-<br>America leads Scotland into a small sitting room at the front of the house, where England is busy unpacking one of their chests. Scotland notes, without surprise, that it's the smallest in their cargo, containing nothing more than a handful of England's more precious books.

Wales is nowhere to be seen. Scotland presumes he has taken himself to check that his harp was not damaged by its long ocean voyage, having been sent – heedless of his objections – on ahead of them several months before their own journey.

England's head snaps up when Scotland approaches him, and the glare he thence subjects him to is both fierce and full of suspicion. "Where were you?" he asks in a rough growl.

"Just taking a look around. Familiarising myself with the place," Scotland says, striving to keep his own voice uninflected, as he resents England's instinctive distrust and knows that staying as calm as he is able to will infuriate his brother far more than displaying any anger ever would. "Talking to America."

England appears a little taken aback by that, his complexion paling. Scotland would like to think that he was anxious that America might have seen fit to pass on the unflattering descriptions of himself England had fed him, but it seems much more probable that he fears that Scotland had been dripping retaliatory poison of a similar sort into the lad's ear.

If they did indeed exist, such fears were a weakness that England could not countenance sharing with Scotland, much less America.

Instead, he turns a stern eye on America and says, "And he welcomed the excuse to be kept from his lessons, no doubt. I don't suppose you've been as diligent in working on your translations as you should, America. Here" – he holds aloft his copy of Ovid's _Metamorphoses_ – "this is the book I told you about in my last letter. We can start on your lesson straight away."

America looks, stricken, upon book and England both. Perhaps he had been hoping that the first day of their visit would be set aside for more enjoyable pursuits than schooling, or else he simply has no great love of Latin, but, either way, Scotland feels sorry for the lad.

Even more so when he turns a pleading expression upon Scotland, as though begging for some avenue of escape.

When he asks, "Do you think you could pick up England?" the real meaning of the question, therefore, seems obvious, and Scotland is happy to oblige.

He moves quickly enough that England only has chance to loose a startled gasp before Scotland hoists him up and then slings him over his shoulder like a sack of grain.

"Put me down this instant, you fucking barbarian!" England shouts, once he's caught his breath again.

Scotland has carried his brother thus countless times over the centuries – from tired boy to furious, vengeful man – so he knows just when to tighten his grip to still the kick of England's legs, and just when to soften it to counteract the twist of his body.

When it becomes clear that Scotland's hold is too firm to break physically, England begins pounding against his back with closed fists, hoping to hit the spot that they both know is a tender one, where Scotland's spine always aches after long days and sleepless nights.

Thankfully, that attempt is a sporadic one, as England has to keep clutching at his white wig to stop it from giving into gravity and slithering off his head.

Over England's snarled insults, Scotland asks America, "Where shall I put him now?"

He expects the lad to tell him to put England down, or else just somewhere far away Latin epics, but he appears to have divined that there are far more gratifying possibilities on offer.

"The pond," America says, with a broad grin and a great deal of relish.

Scotland thinks he and America are going to get along very well indeed.


End file.
